The Kings of Pendor
by Keltiones
Summary: Based within the world of the mod Prophesy of Pendor, the captain of a motley band of mercenaries has his aim set high: to become the king of Pendor, once again uniting the factions under one banner. Many things stand in his way, however, and he must surpass all expectations and limitations placed on him to achieve his goal.
1. Prologue: The Tavern

_**Mount and Blade: Warband**_

**The Kings of Pendor, by Keltiones**

**Prologue: The Tavern**

* * *

I raise my head from the tome I hold as the knock at the door echoes through the rafters of the draughty tavern room. The book, titled "Great Leaders of Pendor", contains the stories of many of the historical greats of Pendor. I was nearing the end of the tale of the last king of Pendor, many years ago, who had sat upon the Silver Throne. He was the last of a line of 5 generations of Pendorian kings, but despite the greatness of his blood, was slain not by the sword of a disloyal subject, but the relentless onslaught of disease; the red plague. This foul epidemic had spread across the continent in a mere month, tossing it into turbulence and killing regardless of rank or title. Overthrown in such a way, the succession of the monarchy was left open to discussion – which, in Pendor, means large-scale armed conflict. The many different factions splintered apart and spread across the land, some remaining secluded, apart, while others aggressively expanded their borders. It was chaos, and there was no one there to stop it. This petty rupture was now simply part of life; people accepted the fragmented kingdoms as if there was no other option, no chance that Pendor might once again be united. How wrong they were…

A second, more insistent knock rings out, startling me from my thoughts. Standing, stretching, I tell the visitor to wait a moment while I buckle on my sword. I can never be too careful; thrice this week have attempts been made on my life. Once in Janos, once in Sarleon, and once more in the village of Yaragar, where a number of Snake Cult crossbowmen attempted to take me down from afar. I cut them down easily enough – their bolts were no match for my Noldor shield, crafted and enchanted by the ex-elder species themselves.

Opening the door, I am confronted with a man wearing what appears to be the garb of an Imperial soldier, who proceeded to speak without introduction. How rude.

"Sir! I have been charged by the Emperor, his Highness Marius Imperator himself, to deliver you this letter. Your eyes only; I have refused to deliver it to anyone but yourself, as per my orders," he announced, puffing out his chest a little. Despite this show of confidence, he appeared a little nervous while waiting for my reply – fear of being berated, perhaps?  
"Thank you, I will read the letter and deliver my response in due time. Until then…" I responded, moving to close the door. The soldier (I could tell now where I had seen the armour before; this was no less than an Imperial Legionnaire, the élite of the armies of the south) stepped forward into the doorway, preventing me from completing my obvious dismissal.  
"I'm afraid I must insist on a swift response. His Highness detests being made to wait, especially on matters of such import."  
"I am sorry, but I am otherwise occupied at this time. Marius Imperator will have to wait."  
"I cannot return until-" the Legionnaire starts, but is cut off as he is jerked backwards and pushed roughly against the opposite wall by a furious Sigismund. I immediately come to the conclusion that Sigismund must have been the 'anyone else' the soldier had previously referred to.  
"The captain will do as he bloody well pleases. For the time being, why don't you just get the hell out of this tavern before we have a problem, eh?" Siggy snaps at the messenger, whose previous show of confidence and pride had completely disappeared. He looks just about as shocked as I would have expected.

There is an uncomfortable pause as the Legionnaire, who had sunk back practically into the wall, composed himself and made his best show of defiance.  
"I can't leave here before my mission is complete. Now, if you would kindly-" he begins, only to be cut off with a grunt by Sigismund's gauntleted fist in his armoured belly.  
"Your mission _is_ complete. The message is delivered. The answer, if I may be so bold, is no."

While this goes on, I open the letter and scan through the contents. It is as I suspected – another offer of vassalage from yet another king, detailing what is expected of me and which run-down excuse for a village I would receive, should I choose to accept.

By the time I have finished reading, the soldier has already escaped from my armoured companion's grasp and is well on his way down the road, with scarcely a look back.  
"What did they offer you this time, captain?" Sigismund asks, with slightly more than a hint of disdain.  
"Another worthless village, probably been raided a dozen times over the course of the month. Nothing new or interesting…"  
"When will they finally get the idea? I've lost count of the number of offers you've had, but you've turned down each one as easily as the last. I detest their persistence, but I must ask: Why have you not accepted any? The kingdom of Ravenstern is powerful, and their borders are slowly expanding. I see no reason not to join them – you are on good terms with almost all the lords in the province!"  
"I hold… differing views to them. You are aware of the history of Pendor, are you not?"  
"Yes, yes, the story is told and retold a thousand times every day. The great kingdom, brought down in a month – or a day, or a century, depending on who you ask – by the terrible plague. What of it?"  
"…I believe that this kingdom should be re-established. It was far more prosperous than any of the current ones, and its military prowess was unmatched. I believe we can bring about the start of a new era."  
Sigismund laughs. "Captain, isn't it a bit late in the evening for jokes?"  
My expression remains unchanged. "It is no joke. Look at our army – perhaps it is small by the standards of lords, but we have never been defeated. Faced with impossible odds, we have always emerged victorious. The greatest warriors in Pendor fight under my banner. With their help, I believe that the dream of the ancient Pendorian kings can be realised once again."  
"Even if you say that, captain, where will you start? Where _can_ you start? You own no land; you have no castles, let alone cities. How do you expect to rule a kingdom from a tavern?"  
At this, I merely hold up the letter, clutched in my hand this whole time. "The Empire is weakened. Their border castles have been juggled between factions constantly; they are ripe for the taking. We move tomorrow. Inform the others that, come dawn, we ride for Janos."

Sigismund merely nods and walks slowly away. Left alone again, I shut the door to my draughty tavern room and open up the "Great Leaders of Pendor" once again. As I stare at the pages detailing the fall of the Kingdom of Pendor, I wonder what fate will befall me and my troupe of motley adventurers. Will we share the fate of the first king of Pendor, uniting the continent by flame and sword, or will we share the fate of the last, dying by the hand of some unknown foe and condemned to be forgotten by the men and women of the very place we gave our lives to protect?


	2. Chapter one: A long way from home

_**Mount and Blade: Warband**_

**The Kings of Pendor, by Keltiones**

**Chapter one: A long way from home**

* * *

The ship bucked and swayed, once more contacting with a large wave. The captain had said that the ride was going to be rough, but the young man hadn't expected this.

He sat in the bowels of the trade cog, in a small compartment separate from the rest of the ship fashioned from boxes, stacked one on top of the other. This small, makeshift 'room' had been his home for the past few weeks. He slept on a messy pile of the few clothes he had brought with him; a cloak and two tunics, along with a few sets of undergarments and the old, battered, chipped suit of chainmail his father had left to him. It was a reliable piece of armour; it had never failed his father, who had insisted on wearing it everywhere he went, and though he had yet to test it, he was sure it would never fail him either.

A pang of grief swept through him; he felt suddenly empty. Remembering his father like that, even in such a fleeting thought, still gave him a numbing sensation of loss. As his only remaining family, the young man's father had meant the world to him. The mother had died when he was very young, and he never had any brothers or sisters. Long days and sleepless nights had often been spent by the two in each other's company; the father had taught the son about the world, that he could one day explore it; how to wield a sword, that he could defend himself against danger; how to lead, that others could someday follow. When his father was at work training new recruits to the noble house which they served, the son would work with the other boys training to become squires, learning to fit and repair armour, sharpen blades, and most importantly – according to their aged seneschal – to fight. This went on, with the boy gradually growing stronger, trying his best not to disappoint his father and to surpass the sons of the other servants, and impress the daughters. It was, by all accounts, a regular and peaceful life. No wars ravaged the land, no great battles were fought; the kingdom in which they lived was a small haven, protected from the politics of other nations far away across the seas.

Then, gradually, as the years passed and the boy became a young man, he grew apart from his father. They still both lived under the same roof, but he no longer spent hours listening to his father's stories of great leaders from distant kingdoms, or his lessons about the world and everything in it. He merely focused on his fighting and riding abilities, honing his skills that he could one day leave this place and seek out whatever the world held for him.

During this time his father, too, grew more reclusive; he would not seek out his son to challenge him to a duel with wooden swords, and took to drinking in the tavern rather than coming home at night. In such a way, the two grew distant, never spending any more time with one another than was necessary.

However, all things must come to an end. Once, after a rare night spent together speaking of nothing of particular consequence, the father invited his son to come with him to the tavern. Taken aback by the sudden offer, the young man accepted; he was glad to have the opportunity to spend time with his father once more – this time as equals. Equally glad to finally have a drinking partner, his father wasted no time in throwing down a challenge regarding the sheer volume of alcohol he could drink. Before he knew it, the young man was matching every pitcher of ale his senior was drinking. Of course, he wasn't quite as accustomed to it, and slowly lost control, hurling colourful insults towards the other patrons. He provoked little response – at least until he started directing his less-than-respectful comments towards a group of glowering, armoured foreigners at the end of the bar. This went on for a few minutes. The youth would throw an insult their way and one of the men would start towards him, only to be stopped by the others. The father would just laugh, making no attempt to discourage his rowdy son. Finally, the tallest of the bunch – he had the air of leadership about him – stepped forward, flanked by the pair of other men who accompanied him.

"Son, you'd better watch your mouth, or we're going to have a real problem on our hands…" the tall man rumbled, glowering through strands of dark hair which fell across his face.  
"Ha, finally found your tongue? I was wondering when you might try to prove that you had anything between your legs!" the young man retorted, glancing about to see what kind of support he had drawn. However, all he noticed was that the patrons who hadn't already left or retreated to their rooms had shrunk back against the walls, getting as far away from the armoured foreigners as possible.

"Haven't you any sense, boy? If I were in your place, I would scurry away as fast as my cowardly little legs would carry me. You look the type that would sooner run from a fight than stay and prove his mettle." The dark-haired man's expression assumed a sneer, but this only served to provoke the young man further. He became flustered, embarrassed and humiliated in such a way by a man who he had never even met.

"I needn't prove anything to you, foreign _scum!_" he growled in response, punctuating the last word with a clumsy swing for the man's head, the only part of him which remained unarmoured. This proved disastrously unsuccessful; the ale had slowed his wits. One huge, gauntleted hand wrapped itself around his fist and proceeded to twist it behind his back. Pinned in such a way, and astonished at the speed with which the man had moved, the young man was helpless. His head was slammed against one of the wooden struts supporting the roof, and he was thrown across one of the tables. Dazed, he had no time to react to the fist of steel which swung rapidly towards his face, and after the blow connected, he lost all his remaining will to fight – all in a matter of seconds. His eyes, blurred as they were by the strike he had just received, could scarcely make out the shapes of people flooding from the tavern, escaping any further violence that could ensue. There was one dark mass of colour, however, which was moving towards him rather than away from him. It was a different dark to the foreigners, with a navy blue quality to it. As it moved closer, he saw it make contact with one of the dark, armoured smudges of colour. Red; the smudge dropped. His vision had started to return now, and he began to come to his senses, processing thought properly. What he could see was the blue uniform of his father, dagger in hand, circling around the second foreign soldier. Another lay on the floor behind him, a bloodied hand ineffectually pressed to his neck. His life quickly slipped away, and he went limp, the hand dropping to the hard tavern floor. The soldier had raised a fist and made a lunge at the guardsman, who deftly sidestepped – a foot went out and the man crashed heavily to the ground, the armour making the impact sound much worse than it probably was. Only the tall, dark-haired man stood between the father and his son now, but he had assumed a position of battle readiness, a previously concealed short sword in hand. The clanging of the blades rung around the room, filling the rafters with sound, as the two danced around each other with the grace of true swordsmen. Neither landed a single hit on the other, each attack being guided away or deflected to make way for another onslaught of blows. It seemed to go on and on, but the young man simply couldn't get his sluggish limbs to move; they appeared to have made their own minds up, weighing more than boulders. He noticed, out of the corner of his eye, the second soldier dragging himself up from the floor. Helpless, he tried to shout a warning to his father as the man grabbed for his leg – but too late. The older guardsman tumbled to the ground, sending his dagger skittering across the room.

The soldier pulled the older man up by the neck, glaring into his eyes. "You made a mistake in crossing me, old man. I am a captain of the army of the Empire. I serve Marius Imperator, the true ruler of Pendor, and I have been charged with the task of exploration and diplomacy. You killed an emissary to the Empire. The punishment for such a crime… is death." The tall man's piercing green eyes bore into the young man's father, who stared back with an expression of defiance, despite his helpless position. Suddenly, swiftly, the captain brought the sword upwards into his ribcage; the father's eyes widened briefly, moving to watch his son in his final moments. The last breath remaining in him escaped past his lips, his eyes closing. He went limp in the soldier's grasp, blood already soaking through the deep blue tunic – it was then that the young man realised that, for the first time in 19 years, his father was without his chainmail hauberk. It is odd how these things work; the person who he had shared everything with, who had provided for him and taught him everything he knew, had just been murdered in front of him. Even as he laid there, eyes shut and blood pooling out from the wound in his belly, all he could think about was his mail hauberk.  
"Let this be a lesson to you," the tall man said, turning to the young man. "If ever you find yourself in Pendor, stay away from the Empire. They will know who you are, and they will kill you. I stay my hand only because you haven't the will or the ability to fight me. Next time, I will not judge so kindly."

He swept out of the tavern, the second soldier following him, bearing their fallen comrade. The boy simply stared vacantly at the door, overcome by a feeling of utter numbness, for an eternity. He suffered silently; gradually, people started drifting back into the tavern, looking with some pity on a man that had, to them, been just another face. Darkness overwhelmed him. He felt nothing.

Voices called out from above; the young man felt the boat collide suddenly with something solid. Panicked, he sat up and gathered his bags full of the few belongings he had brought with him. Stuffing his cloak and tunic one such bag, he rushed topside to see what was going on. He brought a hand up to cover his eyes as he emerged from the gloom of the cargo hold into the glare of the midday sun. The collision he had felt was not of a rock or iceberg, but rather that of the dock against the hull of the boat – he had finally arrived on the continent of Pendor; the very place he had been forbade going by the noble he served only a few short months ago. It seemed like an age had passed since.

They were far to the north; snow covered the plains which extended beyond the small fishing village they had moored at. Realising that he had reached his destination, the youth bounded across the deck to where the captain was standing, overseeing the removal of goods from the cargo bay.

"Sir, I wanted to thank you for the kindness you have shown me-" he began.  
"There is no need for thanks, lad. Your father was a good man, and deserved better than what he got. I just pray now that he is at peace."  
"My thanks for your thoughts, but I will be the one to give his soul rest. I will destroy the ones that did this." The young man's eyes took on a hard quality at this; clearly, it was not just bravado.  
Seeing this, the captain refrained from attempting to convince him otherwise. "Well, just don't go wasting his sacrifice and get yourself killed. Travel safe, lad."

With that, the youth was gone, embarking on an adventure into a land which he knew next to nothing about, filled with opportunities and danger. The possibilities were virtually endless; he could travel anywhere he wanted. First, however, he would have to find himself a horse.


	3. Chapter two: The journey east

_**Mount and Blade: Warband**_

**The Kings of Pendor, by Keltiones**

**Chapter two: The journey east**

* * *

After disembarking, the young man decided that a long walk would be the best thing for him after so long on such a small ship. He set off, heading first into the middle of the village. As it was too cold this far north to grow crops, the village not as sprawling and expansive as he had expected it to be – fields as far as the eye could see were the norm in the few (admittedly prosperous) villages he had visited back home, but it was clear that this settlement was equipped for nought else but fishing. The buildings that weren't homes acted as warehouses to store goods that they were either exporting or importing, and the most densely built-up area was the docks; sturdy piers constructed from solid timbers of trees which looked twice the size of anything the young man had seen before protruded periodically from the small harbour, giving boats both large and small a place to moor.

After wandering past the central village hall, he asked for directions to where he might find a blacksmith or stables.

"There ain't nothing like that around here, sir. You might try the trade caravans by the warehouses to the east, though – they'll usually part with a mount or a blade, for the right price."

The young man thanked the villager and heeded his advice, seeking out the easternmost reaches of the village where all the bartering was done. Of course, there was very little bartering going on in comparison with what he was used to; sprawling markets and a huge variety of goods, from trinkets from faraway lands to a good leg of lamb, were readily available at almost any time when he was younger, but he would have to make do with what was available to him.

After standing close by and listening in on their conversations for a quarter of an hour or so whilst pretending to survey the limited selection of merchandise, he began to understand how their system of bartering worked, and what a reasonable price might be for what he was looking for. Concluding this as he did, he decided to make an attempt at purchasing the supplies he would need for the coming journey.

No more than an hour later, he had already realized how acutely he lacked any skill when it came to trade. Having spent almost all of his money on an old, skinny saddle horse and a rusty arming sword, he decided to cut his losses and search for a merchant caravan which would take him along as an armed guard. Though he knew little about commerce, he knew plenty about mercenary work – his father had taught him all he knew, from experience both first hand and otherwise.

The most important thing was to make sure that you were in control of the deal; you had to make it clear that they were paying for your services, rather than the other way around. If you didn't request payment, you became a passenger, and therefore had to pay for the protection of the other guards. If you demanded to be paid for your work, you appeared professional and willing to get straight to the point – attributes valued among mercenaries. This was exactly what he did, and it was surprisingly effective. He was paid, albeit scantly, up front and was promised a second payment once they reached their destination safely – the caravan master made it clear that he would receive only a small portion of his payment now, lest he run off without completing any work at all. From what he understood, they were travelling to Ravenstern to sell the smoked fish they had exchanged for other fresh goods, where it would fetch a fine price. He didn't even bother asking about their business, as he understood perfectly well that he wouldn't understand a word of it.

Having secured, as he viewed it, protection, he was content simply to wait for the caravan to start on its way to the capital. Satisfied as he was, the young man used the opportunity to check and re-check all of his equipment, and even spent some time sharpening the rusty sword he had acquired (to little avail). When the time came for him to depart, he felt far more comfortable than he had before; he had familiarised himself with the contents and orientation of the saddlebags, and had a look at some doubtless outdated maps of the realm he had brought with him across the sea. While small, it was these trivial things that made him feel prepared. The knowledge that he was ready for virtually any circumstance, down to the tiniest detail, allowed him to relax – the rest was out of his hands.

Finally, the caravan rolled off out of the fishing village (labelled 'Shapeshte' on his map) and bounced along the thin, pitted dirt track which, in this kingdom, appeared to pass for a road. Unfortunately, what would have made for a merely uncomfortable ride was transformed into a challenge of endurance, to see just how long he was able to stay in the saddle of his ancient, swaybacked saddle horse. Fortunately, on the other hand, they halted fairly frequently for an inventory of their goods, to ensure nothing had been stolen by any travellers they happened to pass – you could never be too careful, admitted a grizzled veteran mercenary; according to him, bandit attacks in the region had shot up in recent years, and while it may seem foolish to make such a slow-moving target for them, it was well worth if they had good enough protection.

"That," he said, pounding his chest with more than a little pride, "is why they hire men like us… They'll pay 'most anything to protect their business assets." He spat out the last two words, as if they were dirt in his mouth. This swift turnaround told him one thing; this was a man who, despite his apparent disgust at traders such as the ones they were travelling with, clearly had to go to whatever ends were necessary to get work. It might be tougher to amass a fortune in this place than he had originally anticipated.

As they had departed late in the day – mid-afternoon, almost – night fell more quickly than the troop would have liked. They continued travelling for an hour or so after sunset, but eventually, reluctantly, decided that it would be best to rest. Darkness fell soon after they pulled over to the side of the track, and the small fires they kindled to ward off the worst of the cold soon grew into roaring blazes, bathing them in a hellish light which could be seen for miles. The abyssal darkness which surrounded the makeshift camp seemed not to budge, however – the fiery domes created by their fires seemed to be the only light source from horizon to horizon; the north of Ravenstern was a hostile place which few ever travelled to.

Realising that, despite his brief spending spree back in Shapeshte, he didn't have a tent, the young man set about finding a place near enough to the fires that he would not freeze, at the very least. The air was bitterly cold and unforgiving, and while he had no desire to sleep on the rock-hard ground, he had no other options, so he concluded that he ought to make the best of it he could.

As he set up his bags and clothing in a makeshift bedroll, a girl approached him – she couldn't have been any older than perhaps 14 and shuffled nervously in such a way that implied she was clearly not comfortable being out in the view of so many people.

"M-my father told me that we have a spare tent that we could, ah, could lend to you tonight. You know, as a, ah, advance payment." Apparently, she was trying very hard to remember exactly what her father had told her, or perhaps recalling a line which she had rehearsed many times before. The young man looked at her quizzically; she gasped slightly and said, even more hurriedly, "My father is the caravan master!"

He nodded slowly and told her to thank her father, before thanking her for passing on the message. She blushed and ran off; trying to conceal a slight, shy smile, she returned back to the largest, most central tent in the camp. A few minutes passed as the young man sat there, unsure of how to proceed, before two of the traders he had seen but not spoken to approached, each holding an end of a large bag. One was a large, bulky man with a black beard and thick eyebrows; the other, smaller man had unusual dark skin which reflected in the fires' light and a bald head, covered partly by a linen scarf. They dropped the bag in front of him, nodded briefly and departed once more.

Again left alone, the youth set about putting up his tent. He had no trouble at all with this; he had, many times, set up such shelter when he was on hunting trips with his father…

He forced himself to stop thinking about the man who had raised him and completed the process of constructing his night's accommodation, beginning to shift his bags inside. As he made the journey back to collect his last few belongings from by the fireside, he glimpsed a figure in the darkness; it was standing, partially hidden behind a tree, just outside of the dome of light which filled and surrounded the camp. Then, just as quickly as the slight figure had appeared, it disappeared, and left the young man alone once again. Shifting uncomfortably, his fingers brushed the hilt of his sword which hung from his left hip for reassurance. The effect was negligible.

Settling down for the night was easier than he thought it would be; it was the first time he had slept on solid ground for weeks, and despite the cold, he was actually fairly comfortable. He still couldn't shake the image of the dark figure from his mind, though, and started at every unusual sound. Cracking twigs and small animals were hardly the worst of it, though – one thing that he had never encountered before was the howl of a wolf. When one sounded, more would undoubtedly follow in a spine-chilling symphony of feral savagery. He slept the whole night with his hand resting on his sword belt, ready for any instance which could occur according to the depths of his overactive imagination.

* * *

He awoke in the morning to the sound of song sparrows calling to each other, high up in the trees near to his tent. He rose from sleep swiftly; his father had taught him to always be alert in alien environments. Besides, the cold ensured that he did, all training aside.

Another pang of sadness and regret washed through him. Poking his head hesitantly out of the flap into the bitingly cold air, he glanced around towards the centre of the camp. No one had yet stirred, despite the sun just beginning to peak through the hills to the east. Somewhat surprised and rather disappointed by the lack of professionalism present in the merchant caravan, the young man resolved to begin nurturing the fires in preparation for breakfast. He started off into the surrounding woods in search of dry wood with which he could feed the fires. The frost-encrusted leaves shimmered before him in the early morning sun like diamonds scattered about the forest floor, before his boots found them and trampled them, crunching satisfactorily. A twig snapped underfoot, causing one of the sparrows he had heard earlier to flap away, pumping its tail up and down in its rush to escape from the unidentified intruder. As it escaped the treeline, like a bolt of black lightening, a hawk swooped out of the sky and snatched up the sparrow, carried it away. At this the young man frowned, and continued about his task.

Returning a number of minutes later, he had both of his arms full of twigs and branches dry enough to burn. The camp had started to come alive, albeit slowly. Merchants and mercenaries stood, stretched, shook the tiredness from their muscles, and seemed to gravitate towards the fire that was beginning to build up at the focal point of the encampment which the youth attended. Men looked and smiled gratefully at him when they came to warm themselves by the blaze, rubbing their hands together and donning great, thick tunics and coats to ward away the cold.

The minutes seemed to pass by as swiftly as an arrow from a bow; they shot past, and the young man simply watched as the conglomerate of men readied themselves for the day ahead. According to conversations he overheard, they would make it to Ravenstern by nightfall – in enough time to get a bed in a tavern, with a fire and warm food to boot.

With this thought in mind, the young man found many of the mercenaries and traders much more amicable that day. Despite the fact that they now had the most dangerous part of their journey ahead of them, the caravan remained upbeat as they rolled up tents and filled saddle bags. Seeing them do this reminded the youth that he still had to return his tent to the caravan master, and thank him personally for it. After rolling up the hide walls and fitting them into the bag – with some difficulty – he tied off the top and attempted to lift the bag. It scarcely budged. He hauled at it again, this time using his legs as leverage; to no avail.

Wondering how on earth the two men from the night before had managed to carry the thing by themselves at the same time as wondering just how he was going to return his night's shelter to its owner, he resolved to set about locating some muscle to help him move the bagged tent. On his way towards the centre of the camp, he saw the two men that had helped him the previous night walking the opposite way to him, towards the outskirts of the camp. He caught the smaller man's eye and waved, then started towards them. At a word from the man with the linen scarf, they both turned and made their way to him as well. Before he could say a word, the man with the strange dark skin spoke up.

"We've been sent to help you out with the tent. Your friend told us that you might require assistance." His voice was low and gravelly; more what he would have expected from the hulking man at his side, rather than this small, quick character with his restless eyes.

He didn't understand what the man meant – which friend was he talking about? While he hadn't been there long enough to make enemies, surely he hadn't spent enough time in this outlandish country to make friends either? The youth decided that it would be best to accept their help, and then ask questions later.

They made it to his small camp site and the three of them lifted the tent bag with relatively little difficulty – in fact, the other men seemed to lift the pack effortlessly while the young man struggled to take his share of the weight.

As the three men marched back towards the centre of the camp, the youngest of them felt it was an appropriate time to ask: "Who was the friend that sent you?"

The men exchanged slightly surprised looks. The smaller man said, "The merchant who leads the caravan – his daughter told us that the two of you were familiar with one another. Is this not true?"

Slowly realising what had happened, the youth covered his true bewilderment with false haughtiness. "Ah, yes, the master of the caravan… He, ah, knew my father; I have met him a number of times before."

The smaller man's brow crinkled momentarily before he shrugged and continued his march. The large man remained silent and expressionless, and was therefore hard to read. Despite this, the young man felt that he had successfully convinced them, and began to mull over why the daughter had shown such kindness to him – no less than a foreigner, and a total stranger to boot. Of course, there was a chance that the daughter had indeed been acting on her father's orders, and his own father's influence had spread beyond his kingdom. He would have to wait and see.

* * *

The tower of Ravenstern's fortress stuck out above the town's high stone walls. Hard-eyed rangers patrolled the battlements, and Kierguard manned the single gate on the town's west side, silvered helmets glinting in the sunlight. Some were carrying long swords strapped to their waists, while others held rounded, one-handed axes. All held shields emblazoned with twisting, entwined dragons, usually only seen in the possession of the kingdom's highlander units (according to one of the mercenaries).

The young man sat atop his horse despite his tiredness and admired the craftsmanship that had clearly gone into the construction of the Kierguard's equipment as the caravan stopped at the gate. The helmets were perfectly curved, the plate armour they wore was minutely detailed and the blades they bore were sharp and deadly. The soldiers themselves were no less serious; their demeanour gave the impression that crossing them would be a very unwise thing to do. One guard caught him staring and returned his gaze with cold, calculating eyes. The young man looked away, embarrassed and slightly intimidated, and saw that he had fallen behind the rest of the caravan in his reverie. Spurring the old horse along, he cantered towards the open gate as the last of the carts passed through. Just before he reached the wall, a militiaman stepped into his path with his spear at the ready.

"State your business in Ravenstern," the man said.

"I am a guard for that caravan just ahead-" the youth began, raising his arm to gesture, before the militiaman tilted his spear in his direction. His arm fell back to his side.

"I've heard every excuse in the land. That wasn't even a good one. Now, produce some papers or be on your way." The man's expression told the youth just how serious the guard was, and he started to get somewhat desperate.

"I tell you, I was travelling with this caravan as hired protection! You must let me through – I'll never find them if they reach the market district without me!" Despite his apparent indignation, the young man was beginning to realise the futility of his attempts. If he didn't get into the city, he would be left in the cold with no money and no shelter. The militiaman looked on unsympathetically, awaiting a response. The youth stammered, unable to think of a way to persuade the unrelenting guard to allow him through.

Suddenly, the slight figure of the caravan master's daughter appeared, brandishing a sheet with a wax seal stamped on the base, next to a large signature.

"This man is in the hire of my father. My father is in possession of a royal charter for trade, issued by the king himself. I suggest that you allow this man through the gate, that you may avoid any unpleasantness that should arise from your failure to comply."

The young man simply sat in his saddle and gawped, an action mimicked by the guard for a number of seconds before he shook himself and stood aside, back straight, eyes ahead. "Welcome to Ravenstern, sir!"

Tipping his head slightly, the youth almost trotted away before realising that the gentlemanly thing to do in such a situation would be to offer his hand to the young lady. Doing so, he helped her up onto the back of the saddle and continued into the town. The girl gave him directions as he went, guiding him to her father's residence. Still slightly in awe of her bravery and eloquence under such pressure, he said nothing throughout the ride, merely nodding to acknowledge her instructions.

As the young man reined his horse in outside a large, sturdy house of dark granite near the centre of town, he thanked the young woman, and realised that he still hadn't asked her name. Helping her down from the ancient horse, he said as much, and she smiled shyly, avoiding his gaze.

"My name is Felicity Venton. My father, George Venton, is the Guild master of the city – he is constantly travelling, or doing business with lords of the kingdom. It is from him that I learnt the skill of persuasion; it is invaluable, considering my place in society." She paused and smiled again, realising that she had said too much. She began to feel embarrassed. "So, now you know mine, may I ask your name?"

The young man grinned at her forward nature. Felicity got straight to the point, an attribute he felt many now lacked. "My name is Arthur Barclay. I shall be staying in the tavern in town, so if your father should wish to deliver my payment he can ask for me there." At this, he bowed briefly and hopped back up on his horse. Felicity stepped towards the door of her house before turning back.

"If you ever find yourself in Ravenstern, be sure to visit – I should like to see you again!"

Arthur nodded. "I shall do that. Until next time," he said, and spurred his horse back through the winding streets. Upon reaching the tavern, he paid for a room himself and a stable for his horse, and collapsed thankfully into his bed. Not only had he been travelling all day, he had not slept in a bed for almost a month and had still scarcely taken in his remarkable luck throughout the day. The combination of all these things led him to a deep and peaceful sleep, free of the nightmares that had haunted him the days and weeks following his father's death. It was a dreamless, fretless sleep, a respite from an unforgiving world – a world which had taken all but his life, a life which he now would strive to rebuild.


End file.
